


from the fire came forth lightning

by aikanaro



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Amrod Lives, Gen, Imladris, Maglor in Imladris, The Author Somehow Puts Burning Alive And Family Fluff In The Same Fic, Third Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23245123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aikanaro/pseuds/aikanaro
Summary: like dry tinder, he had caught and burned right along with the telerin timbers that surrounded him.-in which amrod did burn at losgar, but survived.for @nowendil on tumblr who wanted something with this concept.
Comments: 13
Kudos: 68





	from the fire came forth lightning

**Author's Note:**

> just a few translations, which i feel like we all know, but in case:  
> fëa(r): quenya. spirit/soul(s)  
> ada: sindarin. dad.

Amrod could still remember how it had felt. He remembered the terror of realization as he had woken to find himself surrounded by flames and an oppressive heat that had made his gasped, panicked breaths hurt as he drew them. Then had come the pain, an agony beyond agony, as the blaze caught him while he scrambled desperately to escape it. Like dry tinder, he had caught and burned right along with the Telerin timbers that surrounded him. Amrod had screamed to no one as he fumbled blindly, trying to escape the blaze. He could see his clothes burning. Above all he could remember an awful stench that had seemed to come from nowhere. At the time, he had not known what it was nor even been able to wonder. He knew now it had been his own skin and hair burning from his body. 

_Telvo!_ he had cried. _Telvo, I am burning --- dying! Help me! Someone, help me!_

Amras had reached back for him across their bond, terrified, but there had been nothing he could do. 

Amrod’s eyes had been entirely sightless by the time he flung himself into the water to escape the collapsing ship, a feat he would never know how he had managed. Fresh screams had ripped out of him as he sank into the waves and salt water soaked his mangled flesh. He flailed, forgetting how to swim in his torment. 

Eventually, hands pulled him from the water. Even blind and delirious with pain and terror, he had known Maglor’s steady hold. He could not recall the conscious thought, but the presence of his elder brother must have made him feel safe, because he had fainted soon after. 

The memory of that day had never left him, through war and kinslaying and terrible loss it remained, a flickering ember burning ceaselessly behind eyes that had long since gone dark. Even now as he sat on a balcony in quiet Imladris, it repeated in his mind, the last things he had truly seen with his own eyes. 

He had learned to see again in a way, but it was not true sight. It was more like bare awareness of other _fëar_ that flitted past his own in the dark. 

More than his eyes had been marred. Great scars covered part of his face and left side and much of his legs, his skin strangely warped. He was not defenseless, having learned to navigate without sight in many ways, but the loss had left him much less of a warrior than he had been, and much less than his brothers were. This he had bitterly resented in those first centuries after, enraged that he was kept from being as involved as he might’ve been. The oath, horrid rotted hole in his chest that it was, compelled him to follow where his brothers lead and yet he could not do all that they could. This he had _hated_ , but, perhaps selfishly, as an old man he was now glad of it. He was by no means innocent in the terrible deeds of those ancient days, but nor had he done so much as he might have. He had no illusions, he knew that was why he had lived. Because Maedhros and Maglor had not allowed him to come with them to Eonwë’s camp. Because he had been a guilty bystander who _heard_ Sirion fall, though he did not see it. Because he had never set foot in Doriath at all.

Amrod felt the warm spring breeze brush his face from his place on the balcony and sighed. Such thoughts were terribly grim for a day so lovely. He listened to the low gurgle of one of Imladris’ many streams that bubbled nearby and the gentle birdsong above him. A goldfinch, he thought. 

Footsteps approached from the east; a long, steady stride, purposeful, but not rushed: Elrond. 

Soon he was near enough that Amrod could _see_ him in his own way. Of course he could not perceive Elrond’s features and had never truly gazed upon his face, but he was aware of Elrond’s spirit, soft blue and shining star-bright. 

“Uncle?” came his familiar voice.

Amrod turned to face him, lips tilting upward softly. “Yes? What can I do for a young lord such as yourself?” he asked. 

Elrond snorted. Amrod had called him ‘young lord’ since he was a small boy, and the teasing name had not faded even now that he was nigh on six thousand. 

“My sons return from their hunting trip soon,” Elrond said. “I feel confident that they have brought some new tale or curiosity to entertain us.” 

Amrod stood. “Well, I cannot miss that, now can I?” 

It was an odd ritual in Elrond’s household that whenever any of the family travelled, upon their return, the others would gather in the inner courtyard to greet them. Amrod had never said so, but he looked forward to it every time. He was quite certain Elrond knew it, too. 

After he was standing, Elrond pressed his hand against Amrod’s bicep, wordlessly offering his arm as he had done countless times before. 

Amrod took it, locking his arm with his nephew’s. He did not, in particular, need to be guided and both of them knew it. He was in a familiar space and could just as easily count his steps to the staircase and confidently know the length and angle of each step downward before walking, as anyone else, down the following corridor and into the courtyard. However, it was nice to walk like this when it was Elrond, whom he knew had never looked upon his marring with condescension, that walked with him. 

As they made for the stairs, Elrond spoke. “What troubles you?” he asked, red concern lacing through Amrod’s impression of his _fëa_. 

He must’ve sensed the turmoil of his earlier thoughts. The young lord was ever too intuitive for his own good. 

Amrod waited a few steps before replying. “The same things that always have and always shall.” 

Elrond nodded before promptly realizing the futility of the gesture and humming in response. He knew him well enough to understand that some things did not need talking about.

They reached the bottom of the stairs arm in arm, their footfalls light on the mountain stone.

By the time they reached the corridor, Amrod could already hear chatter from the adjoining courtyard. 

“Mother!” came the laughing, melodic voice of Arwen. “My dress is not _revealing_ , it is simply fashionable! A lower neckline than usual is a harm to no one! All the ladies wear it that way now.” 

“My heart, I remember an age when ruffed collars were fashionable. You look lovely and I shall never prevent you from dressing as you wish, but I shall also not refrain from reminding you how you used to dress when you are older,” replied Celebrian, her smile audible through her teasing scold. 

The friendly debate was not tabled by the time Amrod and Elrond reached them. 

When they arrived, Amrod could feel Arwen’s deep blue spirit bubbling with excitement next to her mother’s pale silver one which gently mingled with it. A few feet away stood Maglor, bright and familiar and burning, seemingly content to observe the proceedings. 

Amrod heard the three of them turn in greeting. 

“ _Ada_!” Arwen cried, amusement still ringing through her. “What do you think of my dress? Mother does not like it and—”

“I did not say that! I only—”

“You said it was _revealing_ , and—”

Amrod snorted. It was so terribly like Arwen to begin a lively verbal spar where none necessarily needed to be, and he felt a rush of fondness for her. 

Luckily, Elrond was ready with his customary response. “My daughter, you are as beautiful as ever,” he said, and Amrod felt confident there was a laugh in his eyes.

Likely knowing her father meant to placate her and still manage not to comment on whatever it was she wore, Arwen giggled, fondness emanating from her in warm purple. 

“Unlike all of you,” she said, “Amrod _always_ appreciates my outfits.” 

Maglor choked. “Arwen, he cannot se—”

“It’s true,” Amrod interrupted him with a dramatic sigh. “Her taste is impeccable. Unlike _you,_ ‘Laurë, some of us have more refined artistic sensibilities.”

Arwen snorted loudly.

“ _Refined artistic sensibilities?!_ ” Maglor spluttered, half-laughing. “You don’t have an artistic bone in your body!” 

“Really? That’s rich coming from you,” Amrod retorted.

“ _Coming from me_ ? What does that even _mean_? You’re such an ass, I don’t—.”

“A what? Brother, my goodness, what language in front of the children—”

Maglor boxed his ears. Curiously, he managed to do it noisily enough that Amrod had known it was coming, as always. 

Their teasing was interrupted by Elladan and Elrohir’s arrival. 

Amrod recognized their footsteps, two sets almost perfectly in time. He briefly recalled the footsteps that had once matched his own just as exactly, but he did not allow it to make him melancholy. 

“Boys!” Celebrian called, running forward to embrace her sons. She paid no need to the dirt of traveling in the recent rainy season that Amrod suspected covered them head to foot. She held them and Amrod could hear her fuss, asking if they had any bruises or injuries. 

When Celebrian was satisfied with them, Elrond took his turn, greeting his sons with a hug and words of relief and welcome. 

Elrohir, however, had already set his sights on fresh mischief. 

“Hello, sister,” he said, smirking at Arwen as he walked her way. 

“Don’t!” she cried, backing up. “I’m serious, ‘Ro, you’re filthy!” 

He feigned nonchalance. “Don’t what? Can’t I greet my little sister when I have been away for weeks?” 

Elladan had, by now, cottoned on to his brother’s scheme. “Of course, we simply _have_ to!” 

“Oh, no you don’t!” Arwen made a sound of protest and her footsteps quickened as she made to run but Elrohir, being faster, caught her. He drew her into a fierce hug that undoubtedly succeeded in covering her in mud and horse-smell from head to foot. 

She squealed. “ _Ada_ , look what he’s done!” 

Amrod, hearing this scene play out, laughed. He felt a fresh wave of fondness for them all. He had grown up among many siblings and equally many cousins and so it was a comfort to watch them bicker and harass each other. By right, he had no cause to be welcome here, no right to walk among family or joy ever again. But Elrond and Celebrian had welcomed him anyway, for Elrond loved Maglor as a father still, despite it all. Maglor himself had said this was illogical. Elrond had replied that logic did not matter where family was concerned. 

He had once told Amrod, in a quiet moment, that he knew well that Amrod and Maglor were guilty and that he was not blind to this fact as some supposed. Despite knowing this, he also felt that true atonement could never come in the way of torment or death or exile. Amrod might suffer for all eternity for what he had done, but then nothing would be gained. At the end all that would come of it would be Amrod’s suffering, and it would do nothing to heal those he had harmed. A man had to live among those he had wronged, had to know their judgement every day and face it. He could not un-do what he had done, but he could live among his fellows and know their hurts and trials with them, could give what he was able to their struggles. Amrod had not truly seen anything in thousands of years.

The heat of Losgar had burned his world into blackness. But here, among his family, the world was ablaze with light. He could see the brilliant twilight blue of Arwen, the shining silver of Celebrian, Elrond’s ever-present cerulean spirit, the twin silver flames of Elladan and Elrohir. He could feel the familiar, steady blaze of Maglor at his side and it was a burn even he could never fear. Amrod bathed in the light of his family, swathed in their comfortable heat. He could not un-do what he had done in days of old. But, against all odds, he was alive.

And so he listened to laughter and birdsong and the ever-present sound of the river, and atoned.

  
  



End file.
